


When In Rome

by Ciaphus Rex (ChequeRoot)



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: M/M, Passion, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChequeRoot/pseuds/Ciaphus%20Rex
Summary: A collaboration between several authors, all done with permission, to expand scenes from one author's work. The explicit details of love between one Charles Montgomery Burns, and his architect Waylon Smithers Senior.





	When In Rome

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nuclear Attraction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376262) by [ChequeRoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChequeRoot/pseuds/ChequeRoot). 



**WHEN IN ROME**

  
_They say that with any lover you only remember your first time. That every other encounter with a lover will be lost in the mists of history. I shall tell you that is most assuredly untrue. There are two such events in my life that overshadow all others. Looking at those, and those alone I can say yes: I remember our first, and in this, I remember our very last._

_  
– C.M.B. (1952)_

* * *

 

**THEN**

  
“It’s been a long day.”

“It has, hasn’t it.” Burns looked relaxed, but keenly awake. He held a manner of repose, but not fatigue. He closed his eyes, raised his head, and took a deep breath. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, then looked at Smithers.

  
“You know,” he began quietly, “back when I first came to know you as a student, I thought I saw something in you. I requested you assigned to my lab. There, I confirmed my suspicions. There is extraordinary potential in you.” He stared out over the cityscape. “I see something of myself in you… but more than that, I’m starting to see something of you in me.” He tapped his chest. “You put that idea of a modern, atom- eh, nuclear power plant in my head-” 

  
(“It’s okay, you can say ‘atom mill,’” Smithers said with a smirk.)

“-I knew there was no one else I could ever find for the job."Smithers chuckled.  
"That’s not the way I remember it.”

Burns raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked, straight-faced.

Smithers nodded. “As I recall, you told me if I didn’t sign your contract right then and there, you’d easily find someone else.”

Monty sidled closer to Smithers  and draped an arm casually around the other man’s waist. “Ah, my dear Waylon,” he murmured softly. “I lied.”

Smithers felt the weight and warmth of Burns’ arm across his back, but he didn’t pull away. Waylon put both hands on the railing, and leaned slightly towards him.  
“Have you lied to me before?”

Burns gave a slight bob of his head. “On occasion; yes.”

Smithers recoiled, but didn’t extricate himself from Burns’ cradling grasp. “Why?” he demanded.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Waylon turned a shoulder towards Monty. “Hmph. No. It’s not!”

Burns wrapped himself closer to the indignant Smithers. He leaned his chest against Smithers’ back and put a hand on Smithers’ shoulders.

  
Smithers nonresistingly allowed himself to be turned till he faced Burns. He looked into Burns’ eyes. Those sage, clear eyes. The mild wind ruffled Burns’ hair. His face was drawn and unreadable. Smithers realized Burns’ arm was still around his waist, hand on the small of his back. 

  
Smithers felt his palms begin to sweat.

“I lied… because I didn’t wish to reveal the truth.” Burns brushed a strand of his hair out of his face. “People lie all the time,” he said slowly. “They lie to others… and they lie to themselves.”

Smithers’ hand felt slick on the balustrade. His mind tried to protest, and he pushed back against Burns’ grasp. _Why are you still standing here?_ part of his mind screamed at him. _Why are you struggling?_ the other half screamed back.  
He was still waging an internal war when Burns pulled him closer, and covered

Smithers’ mouth with his.

  
Smithers knew he should leave then. Run to his room and lock the door. There were a thousand good reasons to bolt, and never look back…

  
… There was, however, one reason to stay. Arguably it wasn’t even a very good reason, but it was the one that won out.

* * *

 

Waylon Joseph Smithers, a young man who had not yet become known as Waylon Senior, but already engaged to be married to his fiancée felt his lips singe as Charles Montgomery Burns drew his mouth away. Smithers stared, jaw slightly agape at the dapper man in front of him. 

  
“Come,” Burns said, a hand still around his waist. “It has been a long night, no one could deny us that truth. He lead Smithers through the foyer and into his room. “It is time for the evening’s ablutions, then we can retire in due time."

  
Smithers followed mutely, his mind still reeling. All these  years, these decades, perfect control. He knew the propensity of his attraction towards the masculine sex, and it was something he’d spent a lifetime keeping under wraps. Burns seemed either to know his mind, or perhaps it was purely coincidence. That his friend and business partner might share the same trait? This man who Waylon found himself following, possibly against his better judgement might not only be okay with his nature, but even emboldened by it? 

  
What if it was just a trick? Some puerile joke at his expense?

  
Yet everything in Burns’ manner seemed open, honest. The look in his blue eyes, the delicate insistence in his touch…  
Waylon was still locked in his own civil war, both halves of his mind screaming at each other, leaving precious room for any further thought. He followed, overly conscious to the pressure of Burns’ hand at the base of his spine, matching the pressure in his loins.

  
There was no way he could conceal his arousal, though it was perhaps a small blessing that the angle he was resting at produced only a subtle bulge at the front of his slacks. Subtle, and painfully uncomfortable. Mankind was never meant to be kinked up like this. The curse of snug briefs.

  
If Burns noticed, he paid no attention. He brought Waylon into the spacious washroom in his half of the suite, and began deftly loosening his cravat with his thin fingers. After he’d undone the fabric and top buttons of his vest, he reached over and delicately because to undo the younger man’s as well.

  
“Monty,” Smithers began in weak protest. The husky tones of his voice betrayed him. 

  
“Shhh,” Monty replied, pressing a finger to his partner’s lips. “Shhh…”

  
Burns turned on the tap and tossed a wash cloth into the sink. It settled over the drain at the bottom. Water began to fill in the basin as he continued to remove layers of the evening’s wear. His cravat was tossed over the edge of the counter. 

  
Smithers’ own landed next to it shortly thereafter. 

  
Their vests were hung on the hooks.

  
Burns worked his way down the buttons of his shirt, exposing the skin of his narrow chest, skin pale like milk. 

  
Smithers licked his lips involuntarily. He felt himself trembling as Burns’ fingers were now at his throat, gently undoing Smithers’ own white shirt from neck to navel. At the belt-line of his partner’s trousers Burns paused. He glanced up at Smithers, blue eyes asking an unspoken question: _Is this okay? Do you want me to continue?_

 _God yes!_ Smithers’ own face replied. Without further hesitation, Monty’s fingers were at Waylon’s belt, carefully unbuckling, sliding the leather away, unhooking the clasp of his trousers. He held his breath, both desperate and terrified in one, for what would come next.

It was not what he expected.

Burns turned away from him suddenly, attention to the vanity. He reached into the nearly full sink and pulled out the washcloth, wet and steaming in his hands. Gently, he ran a bar of soap over it and started to wash his face. 

  
“The day’s wear puts such a layer of filth upon the skin. Dreadful, truly; I don’t know how the working man can abide the very touch of his own skin at the end of the day, slick with oil and smothered in dust.” Burns slowly ran the washcloth over his face, his neck and throat, the exposed parts of his chest. He tossed it back in the basin and removed his own white shirt, hanging it beside his vest.

  
“Waylon, don’t be a savage. Do kindly remove that thing from about your shoulders,” he instructed, gesturing to Smithers’ unbuttoned dress-shirt.

  
“Oh,” Smithers nodded quickly, “of course.”

Burns continued to mutter as he washed his throat and chest, body turned slightly towards his partner. Smithers watched as Burns’ slight nipples contracted as the water hit them. He felt his own body tighten in response. The old tycoon was still talking, some mild rant about the common man. Smithers wasn’t listening. He watched a single rivulet of water case down Burns’ chest, through the grey down that graced the older man’s flank, before disappearing into the hem of his trousers.  
Smithers never envied anything quite so much in his life. 

  
He longed to grab Burns, let his tongue follow that water drop’s path.

  
He was still staring, entranced, when he felt Burns’ alabaster hands on his skin; the warm roughness of the washcloth at his cheek. 

  
“Wouldn’t you agree, Waylon?” Burns asked casually as he traced Smithers’ jawline with the cloth.

  
Smithers’ stuttered. He hadn’t even heard what he had been asked. “I, uh,” Waylon began dumbly.

Burns cut him off with a dismissive wave. “No matter. It’s nothing. True, what they say though, it is the act of cleanliness that separates the man from mere beast; and master from some laborer in the fields.” He dipped the washcloth in the sink, wrung out the excess water, and continued to caress Smithers’ face. At Smithers’ lips, Monty paused, then planted a second kiss. “And such,” he said as he resumed his washing, “is the blessings of men.”

  
Smithers lifted an arm as Burns ran the cloth under his armpits, across his sides, down his sternum. He was acutely aware of the familiar curve of his paunch, the thick covering of hair that ran down his chest, parting around his naval, and disappeared under his pants only to be reunited with the auburn thatch of his own stiff loins.

  
Though the water was warm, the air was cool. He felt the hair on his body raise, goosebumps. He shivered. Burns looked up, expression unreadable.

  
“Cold are we?” he asked, giving a slow blink.

  
“No,” Smithers replied. It was the truth, sort of. 

  
Burns’ lips curled in a predatory smile. He stooped down and undid the zipper of Smithers’ trousers, sliding his cool palm between the band and his skin. Beneath the waistband of Smithers briefs too. It was slow, calculated. Burns let his fingertips just barely touch the tip of Smithers’ constrained manhood.

  
The reaction was completely involuntary. Waylon moaned and moved to resist, trying to push away. The anticipation was overpowering; yet in the back of his mind he still felt shame, doubt. Two men together? There was nothing natural about that.

Monty must’ve noticed Smithers’ hesitance. He leaned back, a mix of both amusement and consternation on his face. “Even now you resist your own nature? Pray tell, why?”

  
“I’ve never… I can’t…” Smithers reached a hand out, caught the edge of the vanity.

  
“You torture yourself,” Burns purred, caressing his cheek and planting a delicate kiss at the corner of Smithers’ mouth. “I’ll never inflict such a suffering on you as you bring from your own ego. Be still, Waylon. Pay no heed to your apprehensions.” He drew a fingernail along Waylon’s throat, just below the curve of the man’s jaw. “Listen only to me.”

 

Whatever lingering doubts Smithers might’ve had seemed trivial now. Monty’s soft voice in his ear, whispering encouragements. As if, in his heart, Waylon even had reason for such a thing? He had no resolve now, only a deep and consuming need that radiated from the center of his body. He leaned his back against the counter, stabilizing himself. His heart was pounding in his chest; there was a faint ringing in his ears. He felt exhilarated, or faint. At this point, it was hard to tell. Perhaps even embarrassed: for as Burns slid his trousers and skivvies to the floor there was nothing left to conceal the truth of his own arousal. 

  
Burns seemed not even to take notice.

  
The washcloth was re-dampened and run along his waist, the inside of his thighs, across his groin. Waylon felt his balls contract as the water touched them. 

  
“Turn around,” Burns ordered, sliding a forceful hand between Smithers’ legs.

  
The younger man complied. 

  
Standing behind him, still wearing his own trousers, Burns ran the cloth over the curve of Smithers’ ass, along the outer contour of each well-shaped cheek. He moved slowly, with great care. Waylon found himself relishing every touch. Both hands braced beside the sink he leaned forward, staring at his own reflection in the steam from the still-flowing tap. Burns’ lithe form moved behind him. Smithers watched in the mirror, matching scene to sensation as Burns ran the washcloth over his spine, down the centerline of his body. He didn’t resist as Burns spread the cheeks of his ass apart and ran the cloth over every inch of his exposed skin, from the base of his cock to the sensitive skin just above the curve of his buttocks. Burns’ fingers were a cool contrast to the steaming terrycloth.

  
There was a wet splat as Burns tossed the washcloth towards the sink basin and fell short.

  
“There’s the pity,” he muttered softly, sliding his fingers around Smithers’ waist. He planted a kiss on Smithers’ spine, and moved his lips lower.

  
Smithers started to turn, but Burns sank his fingers firmly into the curve of Smithers’ flesh. 

  
“Don’t.” One word. 

  
A single command. 

  
It was more than enough.

  
Burns’ mouth moved lower, his breath warm on his partners’ skin, leaving an icy chill in its absence. The brush of Burns’ lips, the teasingly light flick of his tongue. Licking, tasting. The sensation on the small of his back was as subtle as the predawn glow, and utterly overpowering. Smithers gasped, and grabbed the counter, bowing over, head tucked to his chest. 

  
Then he felt Burns hands on his ass, his tongue tracing the route freshly washed moments before. Unlike the warm, rough terrycloth, Burns' tongue was smooth, and hot. Smithers raised his eyes and watched in the mirror. Monty’s shoulders moving behind him as the man’s tongue traced along the crack of his ass, lower without hesitation. His face was below where Waylon could see; he felt his cheeks being spread wider, Burns’ mouth and lips moving lower still.

  
At Waylon’s entrance, Burns paused, probing gently with his tongue. 

  
Smithers felt the hot pressure sending waves of pleasure up as Burns traced circles around the sensitive opening, occasionally even flicking in against the natural pressure of Waylon’s own virgin body. Smithers resisted the urge to thrust against the counter, for fear on interrupting Burns.

  
After what seemed like forever of delightful torture Burns withdrew, and straightened himself to his full height. 

  
“I daresay that will suffice,” he remarked. Despite the casual tone, his pupils were wide, threatening to swallow every last hint of blue from his eyes. “You are clean enough.” He grabbed Smithers by the elbow, turned off the faucet, and lead the other man back into the bedroom they’d passed through moments before. Nonchalantly, Burns unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them. He flipped off his briefs in one fluid motion and tossed them towards the laundry. He sauntered over to the edge of the queen-sized bed and gestured towards it. 

  
“Come here.” It was both a request and an order. Smithers couldn’t have refused if he’d tried.

Montgomery Burns reached out his arms, drawing his partner and architect against him, flexing his hips involuntarily against Waylon’s naked form.

  
Smithers was pressing his body full against Burns’, clearly aware of the older man’s rigid cock forced against his younger abdomen. They kissed once lightly. Twice, as if testing the waters. Then on three they dove in. Burns’ tongue was against his, urgent, and demanding to be let in. Smithers was more than willing to comply. Their mouths met, a blur of sensation and it was impossible for Waylon to be entirely certain where he ended and Burns began. He leaned forward, pushing harder…  
… and met with unexpected resistance.

  
Burns was pushing him away by the shoulders. At first Waylon felt confused, perhaps even rejected. It had indeed been a joke, hadn’t it? Feeling suddenly exposed and ashamed, he looked away. He made to leave, but Monty’s fingers tightened their grip.

“No.”

Burns was pushing, yes; not away, but down.

  
Hesitatingly, Smithers found himself sinking to his knees before the lean figure. Burns’ natural scent, delightful at his neck was overpowering at his waist. Intoxicating to Waylon in ways he couldn’t explain. Burns had his cock held in one hand, the other wrapped around the back of his partner’s neck. He was drawing the two together, not forcefully, but insistently bringing them together.

  
Smithers reached up, tentative, and grasped Burns’ shaft in his hand.

  
He knew what a man felt like if only from his experiences with himself in private. The way the skin felt so thin and slid so easily over the rigid and masculine form. The way the tip was both larger, and softer, to cushion to impact. He ran his hand over Burns’ engorged length, wonderingly; reverently. Slowly, he curled his fingers around Monty’s rigid cock and began to slide his palm back and forth from base to tip.

“No,” the older man said, pushing Waylon’s arms down. “Not with your hand.”

  
Waylon Joseph Smithers had never been this close to another man and yet there was nothing that could’ve held him back. He drew his lips over Burns’ swollen red cock-tip, playing lightly with his tongue, savoring the sensation. He felt his own cock throb in response. Cradling Monty’s balls in his hand he moved his mouth down lower, taking the entire length of Burns’ cock in his mouth. The taste was indescribable; salty, yet with a sweet tang. It was something that Waylon hadn’t expected to enjoy, and yet as Burns’ cock twitched against his tongue, he realized he would never be able to forget the flavor. Finer than any wine and infinitely more intoxicating. He drew Burns in so deep he almost gagged, yet even that wasn’t far enough. 

  
It only encouraged Waylon to try again.

  
He leaned forward again, relaxing his neck, swallowing down his own reflexes as Monty’s cock filled his mouth, reaching his throat. He tilted his head opposite his hand, simultaneously sucking and pulling away while massaging the base of Burns’ shaft. 

  
Burns said nothing as Smithers worked; yet his breath came in sharp gasps. “Ah, yes,” he grunted as he thrust his hips forward, a seemingly involuntary act. “There’s a good lad, Waylon.” He panted as he drove his hips against the younger man’s mouth, knotting his fingers as best he could in Smithers’ thin hair.

  
Waylon bore down, resolving to take all of Burns from tip to balls, but once again Monty was pushing him away. 

  
“Stop,” Burns commanded, holding Waylon’s head back.

Smithers wiped a trickle of saliva from his lips, and looked hungrily at Burns’ wet length, craving that sweet taste on his lips once move. Burns smirked down at him and prevented him from moving closer. Beads of sweat dotted Burns’ aquiline face. He was breathing deep, the outline of his ribs clearly visible on his thin frame. 

  
Even without a stitch of clothing, he was authoritative.“On your feet, Waylon,” he instructed, running a hand over his chest as he caught his breath.

Smithers stood, perplexed. He ran a hand over his own throbbing manhood, damp with precum feeling his entire body ache for some release;  he felt naked, oddly self-conscious, and altogether under Burns’ spell. The Master of the Atom was standing before him, naked and proud, fingers tented in anticipation. 

  
“Like before?” Waylon asked, eager to feel Burns’ mouth on his body again. He turned towards the bed, offering his backside towards the older man. He never wanted anything quite so badly at that moment as he did to feel Montgomery Burns exploring him once again.Burns gave a chuckle and slapped his partner lightly across the flank.

“No. Up here,” he said, patting the bed.  
Smithers rose his knee  and climbed up, shoving a heap of pillows out of his way.

“On your back,” Burns coaxed. 

  
Smithers rolled over and Burns climbed up behind him. He reached up and stroked Waylon’s face, letting his fingers linger over Smithers’ moustache as if the course texture amused him. “I want to be able to see your face,” Burns said softly. He rocked forward, stretching his body over Smithers and kissed the younger man full on the lips.Once again, Smithers felt the delight of Burns’ skilled tongue dancing across his own, tasting and exploring the texture of his mouth. Smithers reached up, grasping Burns by the neck, sliding his hand up and knotting his fingers in Burns’ silver hair.

Montgomery Burns did not object even as Smithers wrapped his legs around his waist. He kissed Waylon again and drew his fingers over the younger man’s lips, pausing for a moment over Waylon’s moustache. The texture amused him. “You’re so beautiful, Waylon,” he murmured as he removed Smithers’ glasses and set them on the night stand. “Your eyes… I knew from the moment I first saw you, but I had no idea how badly I needed you until I came to know you better. This moment, now…” Burns’ voice trailed off.

He rocked back on his haunches and stared into Waylon’s hazel eyes.

Smithers’ hands were on Burns’ waist. “How did you know about my ‘predilections,’ Monty?”

Burns smirked. “Because you regard me with the same manner of observation that I have found in myself. Those looks that last a second too long, the way you lick your lips hungrily when you think I’m not watching. Oh, I’ve met men like you before.” He ran his cool hands over Waylon’s downy thighs, caressing Waylon’s soft scrotum and rigid cock in a teasing way. 

  
“No,” Monty corrected himself as he pulled himself closer under Smithers’ legs. “Allow me to rephrase that. I’ve met men before, but never one that has so captivated me such as yourself. Here,” said Burns, leaning back and reaching for a small tin on the nightstand. He removed the cover and spread what appeared to be an ample amount of petroleum jelly over the fingers of his left hand. “Let me…” Burns didn’t finish his words.

He pulled Smithers hips over his, repositioning his manhood as he did. Gently, slowly, he ran his well-lubed fingers from the tip of Smithers’ shaft down the seam in his skin, over his balls, coming to rest against Smithers’ anus. All the while, his eyes never left Smithers face.

  
Smithers couldn’t look away. 

  
Burns’ eyes were wide, hungry, but there was something more. Smithers saw himself reflected, yes - and behind that? The layers of years and history, control and the lies they both told themselves were drawn away. They were naked; exposed. Unashamed.

Waylon found himself staring not merely into Monty’s eyes, but into the man’s very soul. 

  
And he felt Monty doing the same.

  
Those deep blue eyes met his hazel ones, penetrating him more thoroughly than the lubed fingers that slowly slid into his body ever could. He reached up and rested his fingertips along the line of Monty’s high cheekbones. The older man’s face was damp, especially by the corners of his eyes. Was it merely sweat, or something more? Waylon wanted so badly to believe it was more… The look in Burns’ eyes, it had to be more than just mere lust, right?

  
His thoughts were interrupted by the actions of his partner. Two fingers had slid into his body now, gently massaging the ring of muscles at his entrance, relaxing them, and yet, heightening his own arousal. Burns’ right hand was on his shaft, slowly caressing his own entire length as he regarded Waylon. 

  
Waylon felt himself tense  and reached a hand towards his own cock to provide some distraction and relief.

  
Burns shook his head. “No, please. Relax, lie still.” 

  
Smithers slowly, propped a pillow under his head for a better view and drew his arms back behind his head. He studied every inch of his lover his eyes could reach.

  
Monty was slender, straight backed, the hair on his chest limited to a patch right at the center, and a soft down elsewhere. In contrast, Smithers’ own body was solid and thick, well furred from chest to loins and cocks…  
Theirs; his and Burns’. 

  
The way the thin man was leaning against him placed the two men against each other in that regard, a chance for Waylon to compare his manhood to that of his partner.Smithers took a moment to appreciate the way they looked, both side by side.

Everything about Burns was lean, it seemed. He was long, not overly thick (nor thin). Perfectly proportioned to his frame, Smithers thought. He ran a hand over his own manhood despite Burns’ reproachful glance. Where Burns had length, he had girth. He reached his hand around both of them, squeezing, comparing the sensation. Burns was every bit as hard as he was, but narrower. He felt Monty give an involuntary twitch in his hand, against himself. Oh, he could get used to feeling them together like that. 

  
Burns smiled and leaned forward, resting more of his weight against Waylon’s legs. He gave an impish wink, shifted his arm…  
Smithers shuddered in delight,  wincing deliciously as Burns slid a third finger into his body. “Oh god, Monty,” he gasped, closing his eyes.

  
Burns must’ve heard, taken that as permission to go forward. The next thing Smithers knew Burns was pulling his thighs up. He positioned Smithers’ perfectly curved ass in his lap, and started rubbing some of the lubricating gel along his shaft.  
Smithers propped himself up on his elbows.

  
Burns directed Waylon’s  waist towards his loins, aligning  the pelvis to make his entry straighter. Without ever breaking eye contact, Burns withdrew his fingers. He slid his cock against Smithers’ entrance, gave a flirty wink, and in one graceful motion arched his own legs forward.

  
The resulting sensation was nothing like Burns’ fingers!

  
Smithers gasped and twitched, the pressure building almost painfully as the head of Burns’ shaft slid past the first muscular ring of his opening. It was a sensation unlike anything he’d felt, yet the pressure was familiar. He felt his body stretching almost painfully and bit his lip. An involuntary whimper escaped him. It was just between the border of pain and ecstasy. Exquisite! He curled his body forward, eyes closing as he tried to adjust to the pressure within.

  
Monty’s hand caressed his stomach and inner thighs. “Relax,” he whispered, pausing. “Breathe.”

  
“I’m trying,” Smithers replied throatily. 

  
“Does it hurt?”

  
Smithers nodded, eyes still closed. “A little.”

  
“Your first time?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Do you wish that I stop?”

  
Smithers shook his head. “No. God no.”

  
Monty raised Waylon’s hand to his mouth and kissed it lightly. “Good. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

  
Slowly, patiently, Burns eased himself forward, raising Smithers hips as he did, plunging deeper. Every time Smithers tensed up, Burns paused, waiting till the moment passed. Soon, he was fully immersed, buried to the hilt as it were in the body of his architect.

  
The younger man felt the weight of his partner on him, the faint tickle of Burns’ balls as they brushed against the base of his ass. Together, moving as one, he arched his hips back, Burns moving forward in the same gesture. Two pieces of the same being, they moved as one, Smithers gaining confidence by the minute. Any pain had been forgotten, replaced only with a deep fullness, filling his body and very soul. 

  
He raised himself more forcefully and was delighted to feel Burns’ buck against him.

Burns’ hands were on his thighs, guiding the motion. 

  
He heard Burns moan, a soft and beautiful sound that only encouraged him more. With a convulsing groan, Waylon Smithers felt all the years of tension surge from him.

He came with a beautiful agony, his cum spooling across his stomach in white-hot ropes. At that same instant, he felt something hot exploding within his own flesh as Burns’ climaxed within him, apparently unable to hold back any longer. Together, as one, they clung to each other, falling back into the blankets in a golden haze.

* * *

  
He didn’t know what time it was. Waylon Smithers lay in some half-sleep stupor, feeling Burns’ seed warming him from the inside, feeling his own drying on his stomach. Some part of his mind told him he might want to get up and freshen up a bit, but that would involve extricating himself from Monty’s arms;  that was something he was loathed to consider.

  
Burns was tracing patterns that felt like words over Waylon’s chest with a fingernail, leaving a delightful chill in their wake. All thoughts of anything else had been driven from his mind. In this moment, it was just him and his beloved. A second that could last for eternity as far as he could care.

There was no past, no future; no guilt. 

  
There was no shame, there was no sin.

In that pure moment the world melted away. It was only him, and his perfect lover: Charles Montgomery Burns. For some reason he could never explain, but would always remember he was back in the daffodil fields of Burns Manor on a moonlit stroll with his beloved. Gone were the four walls of the Palace Hotel. There, amid green leaves and gold pollen, his body merged with his partner’s under the moonlight. Four little words spilled from Waylon’s lips, mingled with his breathless gasps: “I love you, Monty…”

  
Before he drifted off to sleep he could almost imagine he heard Monty whispering back: “I shall love you forever.”

* * *

  
  
_That was so many years ago. Decades if it was but a day. Time passes quickly, each year moves faster than the last. From concept to plan, and associate to venerable partner in all things. That a single night at a hotel so long ago could change me? I confess I planned merely for the present. I didn’t think beyond what I had, lest I dream of impossible things. Why torture myself I would ask as I entertained my own company, as weeks crept to months, and months yielded to years. Such is the great mirthless jest of the world. Some live, some die, grow together or fall apart, and I am all the more bitter for it._

_\- C.M.B. (1952)_

* * *

 

Waylon Smithers, now adding the suffix of “Senior” to his name, spent a great deal of his time at his personal office located near the main control room of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant in a complex situated between the two massive containment structures. His wife’s health had suffered after the birth of her son. Despite all his efforts, it had not improved. Waylon threw himself into his work and focused on the plant.

  
Months crept by, February came and went and the generators were brought online. Eventually, the power station was in full operation. It had taken time despite staying on schedule. Sometimes things simply didn’t occur overnight.

  
On a grey March morning, on one of their walks around the property, Montgomery Burns expressed his annoyance at the amount of time the final steps to come online had taken. He ranted most vehemently to Waylon who simply shrugged in response. 

  
“You know what they say about Rome,” Smithers remarked.

  
“What? That it was burned by an ambitious madman?” Burns snarled.

  
“Ah, no,” he replied cramming his hands into his pockets. “That it wasn’t built in a day.”

  
Monty folded his arms across his chest. “Well it burned in one.”

  
Waylon glared reproachfully at his partner. “What’s got you in such a mood? We’re live, we’re generating electricity, what more could you possibly want?”

  
Burns grumbled something, his blue eyes flashing beneath his lowered brow.

  
“Are you going to repeat that?”

  
“I daresay not.”

  
Waylon Senior shrugged. “I know what could cheer us both up. My brother-in-law and his wife are watching little Waylon today. Let’s hit the town, get dinner… and maybe drown our sorrows.” he added under his breath. “It’s been a long haul for both of us.”

  
“We have a duty to this plant and our employees,” Monty started to object, but Waylon put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  
“We have a duty to ourselves as well,” he chided softly. “When was the last time we shared dinner together? We see each other every day, but when was the last time we truly talked?”

  
Monty hung his head and nodded. “You’re right, of course,” he admitted.

  
Waylon took Monty’s hands. “So join me! Let me formally invite you out for an evening about town!”

  
Montgomery Burns found himself unable to meet Waylon’s eyes. “Oh, all right,” he relented, “For old time’s sake.”

* * *

 

  
Dinner turned out to be a quiet and oddly somber affair. An unspoken finality hung in the air above the two men, casting an invisible shadow over the table. The conversation that had once flowed so naturally between them seemed stiff, forced. Waylon’s attempts at to interject some levity only seemed to draw attention to the sullen mood.

  
“Ah, Waylon,” Monty announced finally, as he slid his plate back. “This has been a rather dispiriting evening. I’m terribly sorry, old lad, but I just can’t seem to find cessation to my own despondency.”

  
Waylon resisted the urge to reach across the table and take Monty’s hand. It was something he could never do in public. Instead he took the bill and pulled out his wallet. “It’s my wife, isn’t it,” he asked softly as he counted money onto the table.

“It always was,” Monty replied. “She will have you, and I shall not. You are bound by convention and responsibility.”

  
Waylon started to interject, but Monty held up a hand. “-Wait. Let me finish. You are bound and in doing so you have constrained me with absolute certainty no different than if you had chained my wrists with cold iron itself.” Monty sighed as he rose to his feet, pushing in his chair. 

  
Waylon stood up and followed suit, slinging his light-colored duster over his shoulders. He said nothing, merely followed as Monty lead them both down to the valet and handed the young man his ticket. He turned his collar up against the spring chill.

  
“I’m sorry, Waylon. I’m not used to feeling this way. A creature such as myself is used to the solitary lifestyle, having my way; standing at the pinnacle of society, able to go where I wish, do what I wish, have what I wish. Alas, with you, all my money and influence is meaningless.” He put a hand on Waylon’s shoulder, a purely professional gesture.

“You, old friend, have thrown a colossal wrench into my plans and utterly disrupted everything I’d worked to establish. You, and yes your poor woman have complicated my life in ways I can’t repair.”

  
The valet pulled Monty’s Bentley to the curb. 

  
Monty sighed heavily as if there were more to say that he couldn’t find words for. He started to the driver’s side of his Bentley, but Waylon put an arm out. 

  
“Let me, Monty. I’ll drive tonight.”

  
Burns offered no resistance. Face downturned he slid his svelte form into the passenger seat and drew his knees up. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a small tin of petroleum gel. He dabbed a small amount on his forefinger and ran it over his lips. “This air,” he muttered. “So damp, and yet still my skin feels brittle as parchment.”

  
Smithers said nothing. He regarded his business partner morosely and put the car in gear. There was something he had to do.

* * *

 

“This isn’t the way back to your house,” Burns noted as they turned north at the river.

  
“No,” Smithers replied. “I don’t feel like going home quite yet. I want to show you something.”

  
“What could possibly interest me up this way?”

  
“Be patient. Wait.”

  
Burns folded his arms across his chest. “And what of your wee child?”

  
“Remember, I said my in-laws have him. I’ll just have to pick him up later than I told them. This is more important right now, Monty.” He drove up along the access road by the dam, parking the car by the edge of the bluffs. Spanning them, the Springfield River had been dammed long ago creating a lake to the north. Below them the river traced south and east curving gently around a familiar vista.

  
Waylon slipped an arm around Burns’ shoulders. “What do you see down there?”

  
Burns leaned against him. “The power plant. What of it?”

  
Smithers nodded. “Our power plant. I didn’t do that on my own, there was no way I could’ve. You didn’t built it yourself either. We built it together, it’s our legacy, and something no one will ever be able to take away.” Waylon ran his fingers of the ring on his right hand and regarded Burns stoically. After a long pause he shoved his hands back in his pockets and leaned against his partner.

  
“Do you think you’re the only one who struggles with this, Monty? With us?” He stepped behind the older man, drawing  him closer. His lips rested just below Burns’ ear. He felt he should say something, but the words didn’t seem to come. 

  
How could he even begin to explain himself? Once he’d thought there had been enough Waylon to go around, that he could divide himself between his wife and Monty Burns, keeping each separate forever in his mind. It became only more apparent with each passing day that such a divide simply wasn’t possible. He was going to have to choose. He knew that and it ate at him.

  
Perhaps if we had a normal marriage, if she were well, then maybe this wouldn’t even be an issue… Or perhaps, it would only make it worse. He tortured himself with his own thoughts as he tightened his arms about Burns. _She had it right, one of us is a monster. But it’s not Monty… it’s me._

* * *

  
From the moment Smithers’ arms had encircled his waist Burns became acutely aware of his own heartbeat.

He felt Waylon’s breath, warm and moist against his neck. He stood overlooking their nuclear plant watching the steam curl from the cooling towers, the hazard lights twinkling in the distance like a some rare-colored diamond nestled in a velvet pillow of darkness. 

  
Why? He wondered as he let his fingers trace over Smithers forearms. Why were they even here? What good could it possibly do? Smithers was married, he’d made his choice and painful as that was it didn’t involve a private life with Monty Burns. There was no way Waylon would ever chose that… would he?

  
The great irony in Burns’ eyes was that Smithers didn’t even connect with his wife like they did. He was with her for duty, honor, probably some platonic affection; all those things Burns struggled to comprehend. Not for the first time Monty found himself cursing Waylon’s wife in his jealous mind. What he wouldn’t give to take that woman’s place in Waylon Smithers’ life. Why, he might even consider lending a hand in raising young Waylon Junior!

  
Ah, wouldn’t that be a peculiar little domestic scene, he mused sadly. No matter. It would never be.

That woman had no idea how lucky she was. A man of Waylon’s caliber was a priceless treasure indeed. She would never truly appreciate how extraordinary her husband was. The very fact that he still stood by her despite his predilections for the masculine kind was a testament to that. Burns wrapped his fingers around Smithers’ wrists attempting weakly to pull the man’s arms free. 

  
“We should get going. It’s late.” Every second that he stood here his back pressed to Smithers’ broad chest was agony for him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear it. He didn’t want to consider what might happen if he stayed.

“No,” Smithers whispered back, voice thick in the darkness. “I couldn’t leave you if I tried.”

  
Burns’ heart was in his throat. Anticipation, or even fear. _He won’t… he can’t…_ Monty clenched his hands into fists. _Please don’t torment me, Waylon!_

  
Smithers’ arms didn’t release their hold. As if sensing Burns’ turmoil, they only tightened. Waylon leaned his chin over Monty’s shoulder embracing him from behind. 

  
All at once, Waylon’s scent filled Monty’s nostrils, the aroma of his cologne, heady and herbaceous like the most expensive tobacco. The note of class. It mingled beautifully with Waylon’s own scent, something Monty found himself missing at the manor these long nights alone. He relented and tilted his head back, felt his hair tangle over the frames of Smithers’ glasses, threaten to snag on them. Smithers brushed the silky white strands free. 

  
_You have an obligation_ , Monty started to protest, but Waylon’s mouth was over his swallowing his protest before it even left his lips.

  
Smithers hands slid up his chest, fingers sliding between the buttons of Burns’ overcoat. It was an awkward position, Burns noted, his neck twisted as it were. And yet there was nothing he would’ve done to resist it. Waylon’s strong arms pulled him close, the next thing he knew he was being spun around. His back collided with the side of the Bentley, rough but not painfully. 

  
Oh, if Smithers had dented his car… well it would be worth it on a night like this he admitted to himself. There was no secret in Waylon’s motion, no need to explain what was on his mind; and Monty was more than happy to oblige. It had been too long.

  
He bit at Smithers’ lips, feeling the familiar bristle of the man’s moustache against his own delicate skin, but had barely made any headway before Waylon was hungrily at his neck, alternately kissing and licking his throat. As he got lower below the hem of Burns’ dress shirt, flesh no one else would see, the nibbles turned to bites. Burns gasped as Smithers shoved his somehow unbuttoned shirt aside and sank his teeth down over Burns’ collarbone. 

  
Monty made a sound somewhere between a yip and a gasp. Waylon’s bite hadn’t been the most gentle. It hurt, in all the best ways possible. Burns raised a hand. 

  
_Careful, all you’ll do is encourage him!_ A little voice inside his head cried out.

 _Exactly!_ Burns thought back.

He reached up and slapped Smithers’ jawline, careful of the man’s glasses. It wasn’t a hard strike, but it left the white outline of his fingers for a moment. 

  
Smithers responded with a bearlike growl and tore Burns’ shirt from his shoulders. There was something both rough and tender in the act: controlled passion, unrestrained lust. Beneath it all, the way Smithers’ hands lingered on his exposed flesh, there was love. Burns gave Smithers another slap on the shoulder this time.

“You’re an animal, Waylon.”

Smithers looked up, removing his glasses and tossing them carelessly on the roof of the car. “You have no idea, Monty,” he rumbled, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You said yourself, I am the Lion of Fission. King of Beasts.” He drew back his lips, grinning toothily, eyes flashing in the dim light. 

  
With that, he bent down and slid his arms under the curve of Burns’ ass. Effortlessly he scooped Monty in his arms and leaned the thin man atop the trunk of the Bentley. With a free hand he shoved Burns’ coat brusquely to the side. He bit down again, this time along Burns’ ribs, his chest. He paused for a minute, flicking his tongue lightly over Burns’ nipples as if seeing the effect it had.

Burns arched his back, involuntarily. Compared to the impassioned mouthing just moments ago it was both respite and teasing in one. He positioned an arm behind him, bracing his back for support.

  
Smithers’ hands were still on his thighs, spreading Burns’ clothed legs apart as he leaned in. Waylon pressed his hips between Monty’s legs, threatening to pin the older man to the car. Burns arched his body forward pushing against the car for leverage, resisting on merely principle but offering no true protest. Monty whimpered and dragged his fingernails across Smithers’ chest.

“You like that,” Waylon growled approvingly. 

  
“It’s awful,” Monty gasped back.

“Beautiful liar.” 

  
Waylon’s hazel eyes seemed almost luminescent in the dark. He took Burns’ nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, sending alternating waves of pleasure and agony through the man’s body. 

  
“Don’t worry,” Smithers whispered against Burns’ skin, “I won’t leave a mark… where anyone can see, that is.” He grabbed Burns’ right hand, pulling the man towards him. Burns felt Smithers linger over the ring on his hand. “You are mine,” Smithers purred, kissing Burns’ palm, fingertips, wrist. In one swift motion he plunged Burns’ hand below the waistband of his pants, pressing his rigid cock against it. “And I am yours,” Waylon added, leaning forward and giving Burns another bite on the shoulder.

  
Burns ran his fingers over his partner’s softly-furred shoulders, intimately aware of the blending textures of muscle and hair. He tugged against Smithers’ body urgently. “For tonight, no. I am all yours,” he gasped; fully aware of every implication to his words and ready to accept each one.

  
Smithers paused for a moment, soulful eyes asking the unspoken question. 

_  
Everything?_

  
“Yes,” Burns replied breathlessly, fumbling with his free hand to undo his own belt and fly. “Everything.” _How could I resist you, Waylon? It seems I never could_ , he pleaded silently.

  
Smithers must’ve known. 

  
Monty felt himself being hauled bodily up off the trunk of his car, Waylon’s lips on his in a passionate embrace before the younger man put him down. Smithers set Monty gently on his feet, allowing the older man to lean on the Bentley for balance. Immediately, Smithers’ hands were at his partner’s belt, his pants, madly rushing to unfasten them. Burns gave a yelp at the sound of ripping cloth. His ‘king of beasts’ clearly couldn’t handle the frustration of buttons tonight. He closed his eyes and straightened his legs as Smithers tore his pants and briefs free.

Standing exposed, chest bare and pants at his ankles, Charles Montgomery Burns stared into the hazel eyes of his partner and secret lover, Waylon Joseph Smithers, Senior.

There was a hunger to Smithers’ gaze; and awe. He felt Smithers’ eyes study every feature of him, from the tip of his head to his toes, lingering at his navel, at his erect cock. The cold air blew against his sack, making him wince. Smithers’ warm hand was immediately over them protectively, claiming them. Waylon rumbled soft and deep in his throat. There was something primal in the tone. Burns felt his knees go weak.

Charles Montgomery Burns was never the sort to take being naked lightly. Despite his apparent confidence and immodesty there was a world of difference between choosing to be disrobed and allowing his garments to be pulled from his frame.

Waylon Smithers had finally exposed him for what he was, body and soul: a man who craved to feel another in his arms. In that, the Master of the Atom was truly bared - and he felt no shame - if anything, he felt humbled. He longed to drop on his knees before Smithers, shamelessly on the ground, and take his architect’s thick cock in his mouth. He wanted to worship the younger man in the way that he deserved.

It had been too long since he had last tasted Smithers’ salty head or the delightful musk of his balls. So many tastes, scents, textures… Burns found himself craving every last detail. Against his architect’s arms he threw himself down, fumbling with the zipper of his trousers; feeling Smithers’ manhood pressing with urgency that matched his own.

He’d barely gotten Smithers exposed and taken several savoring licks before Waylon pulled him back, eyes shining in the dark. “You’d kneel before me?”

Burns wrapped his hands around Smithers’ thighs, mouth watering. _Boy, would I!_ As Burns struggled to reply, Smithers lifted him to his feet and pulled him forward in an embrace.

  
“Please,” Burns finally managed to gasp against Smithers’ body and lips. “I want you.”

Smithers watched, expression unreadable and ran his hand down Burns’ stomach, curling his fingers around Burns’ shaft and tugging gently.

Monty followed Smithers’ gaze down, watched his architect use both hands to cup his balls and stroke his cock from tip to base. The view was amazing. The sensation? Overpowering.

  
Smithers licked his lips and began to lower his head towards Monty’s aching cock.

  
“No,” Burns whispered, “not like that.”

  
Though in his long past, Monty Burns had found delight in the pleasures of the flesh more times than he cared to count and indulging his desires for both men and women as the mood took him, nothing had ever been like this. Through it all, he’d always taken the lead.

Others let him, of course.

He was Charles Montgomery Burns, a man above the masses; desired by many, but choosing few… and in each liaison he made sure he was the one calling the shots. He was, after all, the solitary apex predator, was he not?

  
And yet, as he stood naked before Smithers, he wanted nothing more than to feel the strong man take him and dominate him. To feel Smithers’ thick cock between the cheeks of his ass, boring into him as deep as he could go. The weight of Smithers’ body driving against his hips? Why, just the thought alone was nearly enough to bring him to orgasm. He watched a droplet of precum appear at the slit at the tip of his cock. Smithers noticed, and smiling, rubbed over it with his thumb as he continued his two-handed stroke.

“Please,” Burns moaned. He extricated himself from Smithers grasp and leaned over the trunk of the Bentlely. The metal was shockingly cool against his abdomen. He shivered and closed his eyes, bracing for the onslaught his ass and psyche so badly craved. 

  
It would be rough, he knew. Smithers had never experienced another man in this way. An untrained mustang. Once Smithers was atop him, there would be no stopping until the young man had satisfied himself. The act would be quick, possibly brutal, and everything Burns needed right now.

Monty’s jacket was suddenly pushed against him. Waylon had snatched it from the roof of the Bentley and slid it between Burns’ body and the car, offering protection from the cold. 

  
Now insulated from the chill metal, thighs to chest now resting against his overcoat, Smithers grabbed him by the back of the neck and gave a dominating squeeze. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Smithers had somehow managed to grab the tin of petroleum gel from the glove box (probably even before they got out of the car).

He felt the motion as Smithers applied an ample amount to himself. 

  
He felt Waylon’s greased fingers slide between his ass cheeks, running the full length from the shallow small of his back to the base of his balls and cock. Smithers was exploring, testing the waters. All the while, he held his neck firmly with his left hand. Waylon had Burns pinned down, leaving the lean man writhing in exquisite agony, tortured with anticipation.

How long had it been since he’d let another man do this, Burns wondered as Smithers fingers circled his anus cautiously. Years? Decades? Ever!?! And never with an untried lover such as this powerful man. No, this night would be the ultimate, willing surrender. If ever he loved anyone, it was this man who was ravenously mounting him now. 

  
Monty twitched with shock and pleasure as Smithers slid a finger into him, gently massaging the ring of muscles at his opening. Maybe if I was too drunk to remember, Burns thought, distractedly. Well this? He’d remember it always. The night he gave in to his lion, his stallion… his Waylon!

  
Smithers had grabbed him by the waist with his right hand now and was pushing him up, forward, higher on the truck of the Bentley. 

  
He felt the hot pressure of Smithers’ wide dickhead against him, ever so glad for the lubrication of the gel. Smithers’ cock was thick, veined, rock hard. He could tell the man was trying to be gentle, but with dimensions like that and Burns’ asshole untried as it was, there was only so much he could do. “Breathe, Monty,” his architect purred, voice deep with lust. “Like you told me, just breathe.”

  
Burns took a deep breath as the bell of Smithers’ head pressed slowly past the first ring of muscles, reaching deeper. There was a burning pressure, hot and tight as Smithers slid into him. Waylon must’ve felt Monty’s body tense up, for the motion stopped, while Burns willed himself to relax.

Waylon Smithers had never experienced anything like this. He’d made love to his wife, yes, but that was nothing in comparison to the sense of warmth and tightness of being buried, enveloped in Burns. Now, here he was atop the most powerful man in Springfield, his nuclear plant glowing in the distance.

He truly was master of his domain!

He held Burns’ neck and hips, feeling the man’s shoulders hunch up as he arched his spine, pulling the man against him with each thrust. Even now he wrestled with his own self-control. 

  
It was taking all Waylon’s willpower, his control, not to rush things. He whimpered and rocked his hips slightly, begging permission, greedy for release. Everything was so tight the way Burns was clenched around him, drawing him in. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to last locked unmoving like this. He craved the sensation, the friction, of sliding through his lover without restraint.

  
(“Yes,” Montgomery Burns replied, knotting his fingers into the wool of his jacket. He rubbed his cock against the lining, pressing his manhood between his body and the curve of the Bentley’s trunk; imagining how it must look to see Smithers straddling his body.)

  
“Please,” Monty whispered, trembling against the silk lining of his coat, “Waylon, by god, don’t stop.” 

  
It was all the encouragement the architect needed. One hand at the base of Burns’ neck, the other encircling the older man’s waist, Smithers drove his hips forward, grinding against him, penetrating Burns’ body (and his very soul). Was that him crying out or was it Burns? Did it even matter?

Waylon threw his head back, pulling Burns towards him as he bore down. Voice without word, raw and primal, Burns felt his own body surge, the spurting wetness from his own cock now staining the liner of his overcoat. He felt Waylon writhe above him, the clenched teeth and knotted fingers… the rough heaving of their flanks as every last drop from Waylon Smithers, Sr. filled him. He was owned now, well and truly; his soul forever branded by the searing hazel eyes and indomitable actions of this man. The world might as well have exploded or time frozen for eternity.

* * *

 

Montgomery Burns had no idea how long they stood like that, tied together in the darkness high above the nuclear plant. All he knew was his body was slowly getting cold, even when pressed beneath Waylon’s solid frame.

  
He pushed himself up and felt his body contract as Waylon slid from him. He took a monogramed hand towel from the day bag in the car and began drying himself off, offering a second one to Waylon. He felt he should say something, but the words seemed stuck in his throat.

  
“It’s late,” Burns he finally succeeded in muttering, looking down at the plant and river as he dressed. “You’ll be lectured most certainly upon your return to gather your son at this hour.”

Smithers fished his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. Closing in on midnight. He sighed sadly and shook his head. “It’s too late. I’m not going back there tonight. I’ll wake them all for sure.” He circled around and flopped into the driver’s seat. “Come,” he said, patting the passenger seat next to him. “Let’s go home.”

  
Monty Burns gingerly lowered himself in into the passenger’s side, feeling both sore, and exceedingly satisfied all in one. He shifted his weight to the side slightly for comfort and buckled his seatbelt. “Home, then,” he nodded.

  
Neither man needed to discuss what home meant. They already knew. 

  
Waylon Smithers piloted the Bentley along the familiar roads to Mammon Lane. He pulled to a stop at the front steps of the manor, opened the passenger door and extended a hand to Burns. Arm in arm, without a word passing between them, the two men strode up the steps. 

  
Burns’ head houseman watched them both, ice-blue eyes expressionless. He was ever the profession; loyal and discrete. It had not been so long ago before his marriage, that Waylon himself resided in a suite at Burns Manor. Purely for convenience, of course. As if anyhow, including the steward or the masters of the house truly believed that.

Waylon gave the silent man a nod and ordered a fire be built in Burns’ master bedroom. 

  
“Have a bottle of the finest cognac sent up there as well, please,” he added. 

  
The man gave a half bow, eyes never leaving Waylon’s face. “Yes, Herr Smithers,” he replied in his soft voice and German accent before slipping into the shadows of the darkened manor.

That night, nestled under the heavy blankets of Burns’ king-sized bed the two men talked about life, fate and anything else that passed through their minds. Their voices lowering as the bottle emptied. Finally sleep and alcohol overwhelmed them both. The last thing either man remembered was dropping into a most blissful slumber, wrapped in the arms of his beloved.

* * *

 

And now, it is known. For less than forty eight hours later the heart that once beat so passionately against my chest was forever stilled. In the emptiness of my office, I laid my hands on his cooling body, while thoughts I dare not give voice or pen to threatened to swallow me whole. In time, I had to bid farewell to his heroic remains. For true love, it seems, is never to be meant for one such as me. When in Rome, do as the Romans. Burn everything you love to the ground.  
Goodnight, my reader. And thus, goodbye.

– CMB (March 15th, 1952)


End file.
